If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Her desires were not for riches. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. They had their little dreams about her. But they would not be denied. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects.
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